#i never wanna hear antis say everything is a coincidence ever again

[chirpsythismorning]

Not them needing 4+ crew-members (2 being the show-runners) to make sure that Reagan sign was in the perfect spot for this shot…

[kuroos-moon]

「vi. Deal pt. 2」

warning/s: angst (just a lil bit)

a/note: for this smau, like my previous one, there will be numerous chapters wherein they aren’t text chains or necessarily smaus just like this chapter and the prologue. If that’s not to ur liking, or for any reason at all, pls feel free to tell me u wanna be removed from the taglist 🖤

He skeptically looks out through his window, and just like you had texted him a minute ago, there were no more reporters outside. Finally, he thought, not really expecting you to be telling the truth. Honestly, why do you mess with him so much? 

Also, he’s been wondering ever since your reunion if you deliberately went to the gym for him or if that was pure coincidence and you’re spontaneously messing up his life right now. The moment he opens his door, he’s adamant on avoiding you because he just knew the person you were now is adamant on driving him insane by doing things like popping out of nowhere to pester him. 

Speaking of which, what the hell are you doing in front of his doorstep? “Sakusa Kiyoomi!” You brightly smile, eyes lighting up at the very sight of him. “Nope.” He pulls the door close but you put a hand to stop him. He tugs on it, making you chuckle, but you stubbornly refuse to let him shut you out. 

“Get out.” He snaps. “I’m not even inside, Sakusa Kiyoomi.” 

Seriously? Saying his full name like that only ticks him off. “Don’t call me that.” He tugs harsher on his doorknob but you successfully grip the door with both hands now. 

“Shall I call you love then?” You tease despite finding it extremely hard to keep the door open. It may now have dawned on to him that this was pointless as he lets go, though he’ll never admit that he’s actually afraid of accidentally shutting the door on your fingers—he knows he easily could. 

“What do you want?” He sighs. “We need to talk.” 

“About what?” How you left me? How you had the audacity to walk back in my life like you didn’t trample all over me before? 

“Our relationship,” you grin. He chokes. “Our what now?” Laughter erupts from your throat, and it was bittersweet. You’re so carefree and mesmerizing—your eyes angelic and genuinely alight. But more than that, you’re ruthless and despicable, he knows that all too well. 

“Won’t you invite me in? It’s cold y’know,” you place your hands inside your pockets. “Then freeze,” he narrows his eyes. He absolutely hates you, here he was slightly worrying he’ll go soft and easy on you because one could never control the heart yet you so easily reminded him of why you were the bane to his existence.  

“Yup, figured walking in your home wasn’t gonna happen,” you mutter to yourself with a small smile. He hates it. Don’t act like you know him, because at some point you did, but you don’t deserve to have him etched in your memory. 

“Tell me what you want so we could get this over with.” 

“Right. Yes sir. Yes love,” you chuckle, not even minding that he remains unamused. “My manager has already arranged a live interview this afternoon.” 

“You should’ve started with that. So, you’re here to ask me what you should say?” He asks, unintentionally looking down on your hands you’ve rubbed together for friction. It was indeed cold, you brought this upon yourself though. 

“No, I’m here to make a deal with you. My statement for my interview later on depends on your response.” 

He rolls his eyes, leaning his shoulder on the doorframe because talking to you definitely tired him out; sucked his soul out of him. “And by this lovely deal, what exactly are you proposing? Not that you have a leverage over me now or anything.” 

You smile, stepping closer to him but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Instead, his feet remained planted to the ground, self-aware of how much his heart was racing right now and the only thing—albeit pathetic—he could do was glare at you. 

“Befriend me for a month, that’s it.” That didn’t sound half as bad compared to how devilish you’ve been these past few days. “Go on,” he mutters, stepping back and away from you. “You can’t block my number and you have to reply to my texts.” 

“Aren’t you ashamed of how pathetic and selfish you are right now?” He lowly says. You look up at him in surprise, there was faint hurt and vulnerability in his voice that wasn’t there before and you can’t help but feel guilty for it. 

“I like you, I don’t know why, I just do.” Pain visits him like an old friend. Casual, embracing, and mind-numbingly heartbreaking. You look up at his eyes and could tell right away the discomfort in them, but it wasn’t just discomfort, there was agony too—perhaps. You could never be too sure, you think, looking down on both your shoes. 

“I don’t know why you’re so hellbent on avoiding me, it felt like you hated me the first day we met, and I didn’t like the way you hated me for no apparent reason, much so because I happen to like you.” You’re rarely ever serious or this openly truthful with anyone other than your friends, it was only normal that it embarrassed you. But this didn’t feel exactly foreign either. It felt like he understood you somehow—your words and the thoughts you haven’t exactly expressed. 

“I hated you the first time we met?” He repeats and you look at him, surprised at the surreal softness in his voice. “When… was the first time we met, y/n?” 

That’s the first time he’s said your name. It made your cheeks flush warm and your eyes widen a fraction. This moment was temporary and fleeting, it was easy to see, because he certainly doesn’t call your name like that so naturally and so right—he certainly doesn’t look at you with the absence of resentment as he normally would. 

“Three days ago, outside your gym,” you respond unsurely. As if you’ve reminded him of something utterly annoying, he had closed off himself once more, his eyes unreadable and brooding as they stared back at you. 

“And this is why I hate you,” he chuckles humorlessly. You’re still pretending you didn’t know him, as if those years together were something you could so easily erase. “I don’t care what you say in that damned interview. Saying yes to that excessively self-centered deal of yours would lose me my self-respect, you know that.” 

He finally steps out the door, closing it behind him as he walks past you and all the way to his car. He hopes this would be the last time he sees you; he desperately hopes so. The last thing he needs is a repeat of the emotional wreck he’s been when he was at the lowest point of his life after you so selfishly left him behind.  

“Sakusa Kiyoomi!” You call off, and he stops in his tracks, clenching his teeth. You’re clearly overestimating his patience. “I don’t know how befriending me would lose you your self-respect. Hell, I am so irritated at you right now, hard-to-understand-breathtaking-stupid volleyball player!” You grit your teeth, he scoffs, finding your impudence unbelievably out of this world. 

He wanted to bring up your past, to shove it right in your face that you had no right to be angry with his hostility considering everything you’ve done. But he can’t, it’s foolish to bring up history you insist you’ve forgotten. “You better watch my interview later on.” 

“Oh?” He mockingly says, turning to look at you, “just what are you going to say?” He admits it is out of character for him to banter off with you like this, if you were someone else, he’s long gone inside his car. Maybe this was his way of saying goodbye to you for good, allowing himself to talk to you like this before moving forward with his life that’s anti-you. 

“I’m telling them we’re the bestest of friends but we might marry!” You stick your tongue out at him before running off, you don’t even notice him freeze up. His heart fell to his stomach, he unconsciously held in a breath. No, he didn’t just hold in a breath, it’s getting harder and harder for him to breathe. 

There it is again, his old, life-long friend. Crippling pain, anxiety, and resentment bundling up and turning into one heavy-ass anchor, pulling him deeper down than he’s been before. The stability he’s built and worked on by religiously avoiding you for years all went down the drain with those silly words of yours. 

Just what kind of ridicule or twisted teasing are you pulling off? 

“Wow, I’m surprised you guys put up with Oomi.” He hears your voice, lips tugging upward a little before he realizes what you had just said. Finally entering the gym, he sees you sitting in a circle along with his teammates. 

He narrows his eyes at the back of your head. You should be in your winter uniform by now, he bets you forgot. One thing he hated about being a year older than you is that he goes to a different school now that he’s in highschool while you’re still on your last year of middle school, you just can’t seem to take care of yourself enough. 

“Yup, Oomi’s really great, he’s the best, I guess that’s why you accept how cold he is sometimes huh,” you snicker, your enjoyment short-lived when you’re engulfed in a jacket and Sakusa’s scent. “Stop giving me backhanded compliments just because you think I’m not around,” he bitterly tells you though there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Oomi!” You rise up to your feet immediately and flung yourself at him. He catches you with no hesitation of course, guessing that you’re here again because you missed him. The rest of his teammates except Komori are surprised. 

“Sakusa-kun, didn’t know you had a middle school girlfriend.” 

“Ew, she’s not my girlfriend.” He bites back a smile though when you punch his shoulder. “What’s with the ew? Not that I like Oomi that much—he’s an ass,” you send him a pointed look, “but we’re the bestest of friends,” you grin. 

“And we might marry someday, right Oomi?” 

His face falls. “Can you not make me cringe like for a week or two, thanks.” 

You scowl, “oh, so what, you don’t wanna marry me?” At this point, he blushes, you’re always so blunt and shameless, you could at least tweak it down a bit. He only scoffs, walking past you to pick up a ball from the ground, “didn’t say anything like that.” 

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[honkhonkrichard]

Highway to Hell

My piece for @jwilliambyers for the @it2ficexchange I hope you enjoy it, it was fun to write! I may make this into a series, if people are so interested... we’ll see... Pairing: Reddie (richie/eddie) WC: 4177 Summary: Eddie runs away from Derry and his desperation to escape overrides his paranoia when making a new friend. Warnings: Swearing, mild homophobia, Eddie makes anti-religious/christain comments. this seems a little anti-religion I promise it’s not meant to be.  also There are connotations that Richie is the devil but i promise thats a mix of Eddie being really paranoid, coincidence and Richie being a dramatic shit

Eddie heard him before he pulled up. Before the car lights filtered their way through the fog and the pouring rain, Eddie heard the loud pop music.

Not pop, that’s not the right word. More like… gospel. Pop gospel. It sounded like a preacher singing with a powerful and deep voice. It made Eddie shiver. He hated preachers and he hated gospel music. The lyrics didn’t really match it, though, which was almost comforting.

The light finally came through, blooming into Eddie’s vision, blinding him as it came his way. The music got louder, the silhouette of the car more defined with every beat of the song.

Eddie probably looked awful, hunched over, dripping wet from the rain, shivering, with nothing more than a backpack and a hoodie, walking down the highway at two am.

Because yeah, that’s where he’s at, this point in his life. Eddie Kaspbrak was running away from home.

The car slowed significantly as it passed Eddie, it was almost comical enough, Eddie almost laughed. He settled for a loose snort instead. Then the car stopped and the window, which had been rolled up and too steamed to see through, rolled down. A light in the car turned on and Eddie couldn’t see much more than the fact that this stranger had very curly hair. Two particular tufts looked almost symmetrical, on either side of their head. Like horns.

Luckily, it wasn’t curly like his mother’s hair was, so Eddie wasn’t too concerned. This was clearly someone he didn’t know.

“Hey stranger.” the driver said. His voice was deep and smooth, it was like the auditory version of melted chocolate. It was alluring.

Eddie stopped walking. No - he wasn’t really walking, more like stalking. Sulking.

“It looks like it’s gonna rain, you got a coat, or umbrella?” the stranger’s voice was amused, if he could see his face, Eddie would guess the stranger was smiling.

Eddie glared over to the driver, who was still invisible in the silhouette of the car light. Eddie wondered if the driver could see him.

“You want a ride?”

That stopped Eddie a bit. Mentally he stumbled. His heart lurched at the concept of getting in a car with a stranger. At two am.

All things considered, though, everything about what’s happened today is insane. This isn’t too disorienting. And besides, he could spite his mother.

“Where are you going?” Eddie asked back. He sounded really hoarse, voice rough from crying and not talking over the past week. He felt water drip off his lips and chin. Fuck it was really coming down, huh?

“Anywhere.” The driver responded after a beat of silence. (Not really silence, the rain was loud, his car was still running, and the music was still booming, though it did seem like the music was turned down.) “You’re looking at a grade A vagabond.”

Eddie had heard about people like this before - never in a good light. Always seems like they betrayed God, or something. That’s how Mama always put it.

Well fuck, if Eddie wanted to do anything right now, it was betray God. He betrayed Eddie, reciprocation, you know?  

The driver tilted his head a bit, and a glare of light passed over his features, fixating over his eyes. They were vibrant blue, surrounded by pale, skin.

Only then I am human. The car sang. Eddie felt his heart thump.

“Okay.”

Only then I am clean.

Eddie crossed the street, and felt like he was crossing some invisible threshold. A part of him felt like he was crossing into hell, and this driver, the Devil.

He walked past the front of the car, and to the passenger’s side door. Hesitation sparked at his fingertips. Once he did this, there was no going back.

Come home Eddie! His mother whined into his ear. Please don’t leave me for this filthy runaway!

A dozen voices all at once found their way into Eddie’s head, giving him a feeling of being split open. Words from people he knew - he had seen, or interacted with not 24 hours ago - crawled out from the depths of where Eddie had repressed it, and burned their way down his scalp.

No one likes a sinner, Eddie!

Come home, confess to your sins.

We can help you Eddie!

The door opened.

“It’s unlocked, Stranger.” The driver told him.

Eddie blinked, and crawled into the car.

The harsh orange lighting of the inside of the car was far different to the cold, dark blue and black of the side of the road. Felt good to rest his feet though. Eddie’s mind supplied for the symbolism.

He hadn’t looked at the driver yet. He couldn’t bring himself to look. Something about it seemed sacred.

“So,” The driver asked. He was turned into fetch something from the backseat.

“You runnin’ from something or did you just get lost?” 

“Running.” Eddie said simply.

The driver let out a long, steady hum. The noise made Eddie’s heart stutter. Everything about this... It made Eddie uneasy. He felt lost, and paranoid. More so than he had. Maybe it was the effects of running away. Or maybe just catching a cold

“You wanna tell me your name, stranger?”

Eddie, he thought. My name is Eddie Kaspbrak and I want to find a new home because my old one was crap and everyone I knew made me feel like a mistake please help me please please please.

“Stranger is fine.” he lied.

A towel fell on Eddie’s lap where he had been staring at the wet hem of his shorts. He jumped at the sudden contact - the driver pushed one of Eddie’s curls back behind his ear. It left a burning sensation.

“Stranger it is then.”

Eddie had a sour feeling in his stomach that this driver already knew his name, but he picked up and used the towel anyway.

He glanced over to the driver without thinking about it, and caught himself staring at the drivers hands, rather than seeing his face.

The driver had very long, nimble fingers, and callous hands. All adorned with shiny jewelry. Expensive rings with gems, beautiful designs or eye catching intricacies. They were really nice. There was, however, one that made Eddie nervous, a glossy black skull ring, on his right ring finger. It stared right into Eddie’s heart, piercing his soul.

No one likes a sinner, Eddie.

“I can take it off.” The driver told Eddie, and Eddie’s blood ran cold. “The ring. I can take it off, if it’s upsetting.”

“How’d you know I was staring at it?” Eddie blurted.

“I just did.”

The Devil wants only to hurt you. That’s what I heard anyway. That’s what my dad told me.

Eddie looked away from the driver and continued to roughly dry his hair.  “Sorry for getting your car wet.”

“This isn’t my car. I’m only using it.”

Eddie slowed. “Did you steal it?”

“No.”

The driver turned on the engine instead of elaborating.

“Don’t worry about it, okay Eddie?”

Eddie couldn’t stop himself from gasping. It was quiet, yes, but it was audible. How did he know his name? God.

Something about that thought almost led to a snort. Or maybe a nervous giggle. God. Nothing about any of this has God involved.

The driver shifted in his seat. The light clicked off.

They started to drive, slowly, very slowly pick up the pace as they pulled back onto the highway, like the driver was giving Eddie one final chance to escape.

Eddie didn’t know the Devil was so patient or giving.

“We’re going in the wrong direction.” Eddie said suddenly. They were going back home. No, not home. Just.. to town. Back to Derry.

“That’s not where you want to go?” The driver asked smoothly, car still speeding up.

“Anywhere but there.” Eddie said, and then really wished he hadn’t. “Please.”

This felt like the opposite of confessing to a priest. He was pleading to the Devil.

“Surely, there’s somewhere else you want to go?” The Devil - no, the driver, asked.

“Not really. Just not back there.”

The car came to a brisk stop. The driver turned and began to speed down the highway in the opposite direction. Something in Eddie felt at ease. He wasn’t going back. He would never see those people again. He would never have to worry about The Lord or church or sinning or anything, ever again. The only thing he would ever need a bible for is fire fuel.

“Tell me, Eddie.” The driver asked in that rich voice of his. Hearing him say Eddie’s name made him feel more singled out than he had in a long, long time. “What did they do to you?”

There was the clicking noise of a lighter, and the faint smell of a cigarette made its way to Eddie’s nose. The back windows went down. The driver sped up.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How did they hurt you, Eddie?”

“No one hurt me.”

Eddie was starting to feel sick. This driver, stranger, smoker, sinner, demon- how did he know so much about Eddie? If he knew so much, why bother asking?

There was a pause.

“Do you want something to eat? I passed a fast food place not 20 clicks back. You would’ve passed it too, if you’d walked for another hour.”

Eddie stared at his shoes. They were still soaked, and they were gross. “I don’t have any money.”

The first flash of anger - or maybe annoyance - passed subtly through the driver’s voice.

“I didn’t ask if you had money.” he stirred. “I asked if you were hungry.”

“I... I’m hungry. Yes, please.” Eddie murmured.

“Good, because we’re stopping.”

It was at that point where Eddie realized that the same song had been on loop this whole time. Maybe I’m not in hell yet. He thought hopefully. He wasn’t sure why he was hopeful.

-

The car pulled into the parking lot, the bright lights of the restaurant hurt Eddie’s eyes.

“C’mon Eddie.”

Trying to repress the feeling he got in his stomach every time the driver said his name, Eddie got out of the car and followed up to the stranger all the way inside the restaurant.

“I’ll get food - go sit somewhere.” The driver told Eddie. It didn’t really seem like a demand - more like a recommendation, a suggestion.

The place was practically empty, but Eddie felt overly compelled to choose a booth in the corner, his back to a wall, staring out the window. For a minute, he watched the rain pour, all the street lights, the cars that passed. The two cars that passed for the duration of Eddie’s staring.

Then Eddie looked back to his escort. The strange, ambiguous man. He wasn’t facing Eddie, and Eddie let his eyes study and wander.

His escort was wearing black skinny jeans, yellow shoes, and a large leather jacket covered in patches. On the back was a painted raccoon, wearing glasses. It said loser’s club above it.

His hair was black as well, and curly. The horns Eddie thought were there were still there, but the bright lights assured Eddie it was just hair.

The escort turned back to the table Eddie was sitting at and Eddie quickly whipped his head back out the window.

He still couldn’t believe he was doing this. Running away? Eating greasy food with some stranger - a runaway - who seems to embody the devil but also makes Eddie think those filthy things his mother made him resent?

In theory, he could leave. He could grab his bag and run out the front door and back out down the highway, and run all the way to the next town over. He’d be scot free. He traced his finger down the route to prove it, looking out the window down the road to see if there was anything else out there. There wasn’t.

“Next town is about a 30 minute drive. We can hit a motel there.” The escort said, putting a tray onto the table and collapsing into the seat across from Eddie.

His sudden presence made Eddie jump and fall back facing forward to his seat, looking straight at the stranger, and his face.

His skin was pale and his eyes were still really blue, enlarged behind big aviator glasses. There was a glint of carelessness - but not dismissiveness -  in them. He had a long, thin face with a beauty mark under one eye, a crooked nose and a splatter of freckles. He was…

Eddie gulped. He was really attractive.

Something about seeing his face humanized him greatly, and Eddie didn’t feel so scared any more.

“I got you a burger and large fries. And Cola.” the escort said, passing said meal to Eddie, who was still staring. “Hope that’s okay.”

“How’d you know my name?” Eddie thought aloud.

The escort smiled, a large, blooming grin showing off a retainer. He looked around Eddie’s age.

“It’s on your sweatshirt.” he grinned. Eddie looked down at his hoodie, and lo and behold, carefully stitched in over his heart, his mother had put Eddie K. It was probably seen when Eddie was staring at the stranger’s rings. The realization made him blush a deep red.

“Oh.” he said dumbly. He dug into his burger. He was so hungry, he hadn’t realized until he started wolfing it down.

“I know you were looking at the skull ring ‘cause it’s the one people always like the most. Everyone stares at it.” The stranger continued. “And for the record, you shouldn’t be scared of me. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I’m not scared. Never was.” Eddie lied. Big lie.

The stranger smiled again, this time between bites of chicken nuggets. “Sure.” he cooed.

Eddie’s ears burned. 

“So, motel? Is that okay?”

“Um.. yeah okay.” he decided. Might as well.

“Great.”

They ate in silence, with Eddie scarfing down all the food, and then some of his new friend’s (are they friends now?) and his driver pointing out every time someone went by, like he was waiting for someone.

“Why were you leaving?” Eddie asked, after much thinking.

The driver hummed.  “Hmmm?”

“You were coming from Derry. Why were you leaving?”

“Picking someone up.” was the response. He failed to elaborate.

Eddie frowned. “You were the only one in the car.”

“Nope.”

A flash of fear came back to squeeze around Eddie’s gut.

“Who?”

The stranger grinned, and it was still light-hearted.

“You don’t know my name but you wanna know my friends? Wow.” He said sarcastically.

“Well,” Eddie fought the flush rising in his cheeks. “What’s your name?”

“I tell you when I feel like it.”

Eddie dropped a little. “I’m not allowed to know anything about you, am I?”

Another, bigger grin. “Should’a asked earlier, Doll.”

The nickname Doll and the connotations to it made Eddie shift uncomfortably.

“What? You don’t like pet names?”

“I’m not a pet.”

And it’s not natural. Eddie’s brain told him. It’s not natural Eddieeeeeee-

“Eds. How’s that? Not a pet name.” 

“My name is Eddie.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The stranger then gave Eddie a shit-eating grin, like he got what he wanted. Eddie picked up the garbage remains of the meal and walked away with the tray.

He threw out everything as he heard the front door open and close, by the time he had finished sorting the trash, he had turn to see his driver was already in the car.

A part of Eddie thought the driver was going to leave Eddie at the restaurant and disappear forever, and the idea felt both real and unsettlingly awful. Without dwelling on it, Eddie made a beeline for the car, climbing in and shaking his head a bit after getting rained on. His driver was fiddling with the stereo.

The on-loop not-gospel that had been playing was traded for up beat pop with lyrics that didn’t sound super happy, but it was something the driver could clearly dance to, because that’s what he did, bopping in his seat as he turned the engine on again and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Thomas.”

The driver frowned with a playful grin. “What?” “I’m guess names for you.” Eddie told him. Thomas could suit his face, but not his personality. At least what Eddie knew of his personality. “Well, that’s not it.”

“Jacob?”

“No.”

“Finn!”

“Wrong.”

“Ezra?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Bill.”

The driver laughed, a deep, throaty noise that made Eddie smile a bit, too. “Not even close! I have a friend named Bill though.”

Eddie smiled to himself as his driver turned up the music a bit. He leaned back in his seat. He felt oddly calm, compared to his intense paranoia from earlier. Maybe he had just been really hungry.

His driver began to sing to the music a bit, and Eddie, who recognized the song, hummed along.

It felt so cliche, driving around at almost four in the morning, singing to dumb pop songs on his driver’s CD of “2000s Greatest Hits” (He made it) and laughing at the ridiculous voices that the driver did.

Time flew by as Eddie let himself get lost in the music and cliche happiness of it all, and then they were pulling into a motel parking lot, trying to catch their breaths.

The driver stopped the car, but made no move to leave.

“Richie.”

Eddie dropped his hand off the door handle. “Pardon?”

“My name. It’s Richie.”

Eddie smilied.

“Nice to meet you Richie. Care to buy me a room?”

“Only if I can sleep there too. And Stan.”

Eddie blinked at him. “What?”

“Stan’s the other one in the car. He’s sleeping in the back seat.” Richie said, giving a haphazard gesture to the backseat. Eddie turned and looked, but didn’t see anything.

“Made you look.”

Eddie swung back around. Richie burst out laughing, clapping against the steering wheel a few times before getting out of the car. Eddie followed, yelling the whole time.

“You know why your name is Richie? ‘Cause you’re a dick!” He cried, smiling despite everything that had happened that day, and the rain that fell onto his face.

“My parents knew what they were doing, baby!” Richie yelled back, locking the car and making his way to the front desk. Eddie skipped up beside him. It felt nice, being able to talk with someone without fear of offending them.

“I hadn’t realized how tall you are.” Eddie murmured, the top of his head barely met Richie’s nose.

“I’m only 6 feet.” Richie said, sounding puzzled.

“Still.” Said Eddie, who was only 5’6”.

The guy behind the counter looked exhausted, but he gave a half-assed smile to Richie and Eddie as they went up to the counter.

“Can I get one room for one night, please.”

The attendant nodded, and started to get the card. “Runaways?” He guessed. He wasn’t judging, just sounded curious.

“Nothin’ to it.” Richie said before Eddie could say anything. “Just a few losers lookin’ for a way out.”

The attendant nodded again, and Eddie figured he didn’t really care, because he didn’t follow up or ask; he just handed the key for the room (number 25) to Richie and went to sit back down.

Luckily for the two of them, the whole motel had one large porch, so they were protected from the rain.

“You didn’t roll the back windows down.” Eddie pointed to Richie’s car.

“I didn’t want to.” Richie said simply, stepping up a set of stairs to their rooms.

(There were 28 in total, 14 on each floor, but #27 was ‘having issues’ according to the paper taped to the door.)

“Voila!” Richie said as he opened the door.

The room wasn’t much, a nice window with curtains, a small table with two chairs, two nightstands on either side of a queen size bed, a painting here and there.

“I’ve never been in a motel before.” Eddie mumbled as he dropped his backpack on the floor. “Or a hotel, for that matter.”

“No? Never on vacation or anything?” Richie’s eyebrows went up just a tad, trying not to act too surprised. He stripped off his leather jacket, revealing an oversized button up with street fighter characters.

“Everyone always came to us.” Eddie shrugged, slipping off his shoes and sweater. He turned and leaped onto the bed collapsing onto it and immediately feeling his body relax into the fabric. Richie let out a chuckle.

Eddie rolled over onto his back and sat up, facing Richie, who was unbuttoning the top buttons on his shirt.

“Were you actually picking someone up from Derry?” Eddie asked, probably sounding the most casual he had all night.

“Yeah.” Richie nodded. “You.”

Eddie sorted. “What?”

Richie wandered over to the bed and crawled next to Eddie. Eddie tried not to focus on how close they were. “My brother- he seemed to have figured out you were planning on leaving, go concerned - asked me to find you before you got hurt.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Your brother?”

Richie nodded again. “My brother. His name’s Ben. he’s not my real brother, but he’s just as close. Got three brothers. Only one is actually related.”

“So why-” Eddie frowned. “Why’d you help me? Why was your brother concerned?”

A shrug. “I don’t know. Felt like going on an adventure, knew Derry is famously awful, wanted to help.”

There was a pause, and Eddie turned and laid down on the bed, on his side, back to Richie.

“Derry’s not that bad.”

There was some shuffling from behind Eddie, but he didn’t turn around.

“It’s homophobic as hell, Eds.” Richie grunted. “I mean maybe I’m not used to it cause I’m from San Francisco but dude.”

Eddie closed his eyes and tried to picture the Golden Gate Bridge, which was the only landmark from San Francisco he knew. “I’ve never been.”

“I can take you there.” Richie said softly. He must’ve been lying down, his voice wasn’t as clear as it was before. “If you want.”

Eddie felt a soft blush rise on his face. “Would you?”

“Yeah.”

The intimacy in the room dawned on Eddie, then, because Richie’s long arms appeared on Eddie’s back and wrapped around his middle, pulling them together.

“I bought you food and a temporary bed, I deserve to hold you for a little bit.” Richie said, like he needed an excuse.

“I’ve never cuddled before.” Eddie murmured, feeling now that the shuffling from earlier was Richie taking his shirt off. His bare skin was warm to the touch, Eddie could feel it through his own polo.

Richie let out a soft sigh and tucked himself into the junction of Eddie’s shoulder.

“Ben told me to pick you up because he knew we’d get along.” he admitted. “And he thought you’d fit in with all the group.”

“I’ve never had a group of friends before.”

“Is there anything you have done?”

“I’ve run away from home.”

Richie whistled, the sound mellow against Eddie’s neck. “Hot damn.”

Eddie smiled, and gently put his hands over Richie’s, holding them where they were placed over Eddie’s hips. Left hand on Right hip; Right hand on left hip.

“When I woke up this morning, I was so angry. And then I was so sad, and then paranoid when I met you, I felt like God hated me.”

“God doesn’t hate anyone, that’s her whole thing.” Richie said, by the sound of his voice, he must’ve been falling asleep.

“But now I feel so... lucid, and clear. And happy. And I don’t know why.”

Richie hummed. “You’re welcome.”

Eddie decided it was best to let him sleep. He was probably on the road for a while, and it was nearly 4:30 in the morning. Eddie reached over, gently shaking from Richie’s grasp, and turned off the lamp next to them. As soon as he settled, Richie spooned him again, and this time he pressed a light kiss to Eddie’s neck.

“Tomorrow we’ll start to Cali.” Richie grumbled.

Eddie looked down at where Richie had laced his fingers with Eddie’s. “That sounds like a good plan.”

Richie was snoring not ten minutes later.

Eddie was awake a bit longer, thinking about everything. His mother, his final words to her, running from home, sulking down the highway. He couldn’t not feel a pang of guilt, doing that to her, but the feeling of Richie wrapped around him made that melt away.

God doesn’t hate anyone, that’s her whole thing.

Eddie smiled again. He smiled more around the 3 hours he’d known Richie than in the past week.

There was something about Richie. Something about him that made Eddie feel safe. Maybe it was his confidence.

Probably shouldn’t dwell on it. Eddie told himself. He closed his eyes, listening to Richie snoring softly behind him. It was comforting. In his mind, he saw Richie, holding his hand and driving to California. Maybe he’d meet Ben one day. Or Bill. Or Stan, if he was real.

Eddie finally fell asleep, the warmth of Richie’s breath hushed Eddie’s tired mind to finally give way.

[hauntedlikeahuman]

my higher power

Happy born day to my angel. Your birthday is exactly a week after mine, i was born to never forget you. I think about your birthday a week before i think about my own birthday, and a week after your birthday i’m still thinking about you. 

I feel like everything i am today is attributed to you. and its something im trying to understand. im trying to believe this makes sense or has the potential to make sense but. still just trying to keep my head abpve water 

its crazy cause you passed away about 4 months before the pandemic and quarantine and all the hate and violence and bigotry and heartless monsters were the stars of our collective nightmare. i was suprisingly unbothered/privilaged in 2020, in comparison to others. i was annoyed at the world for suffering after me and the people i love finally clawed our way to not suffering. then nothing healed, everything internalized and it compounded over that year of absolute chaos and pain, and it was waiting for me when i got out. which meant people were even less open to hearing about it. people were talking about suffering because they couldnt go to the olive garden or get a haircut. and through all of this shit i was annoyed at the fragility of people. the entire time i knew the world would be fine and would go back to relative normoralcy and adjust. I KNEW THAT PAIN WOULD END FOR MOST PEOPLE AND I WOULD HAVE TO PICK MINE BACK UP AND START. ALL OVER AGAIN

i havent made a new friend since you passed. i have not shared a piece of me with anyone. i feel a connection with no one because no one feels like you. when i think i want to open up to people, im always somehow reminded of how theyre NOT like you and thats all i can think about. its like trying to find people to connect with but you have to seriously lower your standards for connectedness or be alone and never have a true connection ever again cause you were the ONE and youre gone now, even after all those years of surviving. so fuck it. seriously, fuck it. i dont even care about being a good friend to anybody anymore. i feel like ive lost that ability because ive lost you so i cant see the good in people, i only see how inferior they are as loved ones in my life. people i love will lowkey disappoint me when they do things you would never do to me. you are always the standard comparison. its literally a curse. you. cannot explain any of this shit to anybody so what the fuck is the point if i can never get over this? i literally dont ever want to make friends who will not live up to you. it is absolutely a waste and being alone forever feels like the better option for my heart 

like i cant fucking believe im in this world without you. i will never get over it. it is the biggest fucking joke and i cant believe im forced to be here when youre gone and jude and noah have to grow up without you. i hate the entire world for that. im pissed that this is really how things have worked out. im pissed that we’re told in rehab that all our friends might die and you think theyre just serious about saving your life so of course they say that cause they cant be wishy washy, they need to be deadly serious. you KNOW the statistics but in this moment you still feel like a warrior among warriors and theyre saying that for all the OTHER people who cant stay sober... and 5 years later you suddenly realize that everyone really did die and they were right. and then you wonder if they even believed they would be right or if they were handing heroin addicts with gentle hands and sticking to the all or nothing bottom line because of how fragile that life is and because of all the funerals they have attended. i think about all the people who were in that room with me who are now gone and wonder if they thought they would make it. its like youre trained to never get too comfortable with your life. and you will enter recovery for the first time and feel like youre on a cloud and met the most amazingly strong friends and then slowly you watch them fall off, relapse, go to jail, get kicked out of rehab, in the. hospital with a blood infection or texting you asking you if you have any old anti biotics because they have an absyss and cant afford. to go to a doctor or have. a warrant or cant bother being admitted to the hospital for an abcess when you have a heroin habit to keep up on. the hospital is the least comfortable option at that point.....

let that sink in

the hospital is the least comfortable option for someone who sleeps in a park and has to beg for food and spend every waking hour in problem solving mode with only very temporary reprieves from the pain and the shame. and youre treated like trash the second people realize you dont have a home. its the most absurd nonsensical shit youll ever experience  and then they actually do all end up dying. i have a vivid. memory of the people sitting in that room with me who i didnt wanna lose..... theyre all dead. except one. i’m not lying... its really hard to not keep score at that point. my friends thrive and rebuild and change other peoples lives along along the way and then die at 4 years sober... literally am worthless compared to all the people who should be here instead of me. i still cant even fucking stand life. and sometimes i feel guilty and ashamed and mad that you left me here. and im fucking worthless in this world compared to you. i have not been able to get myself back in the gym. i literally cant do shit without you and im paralyzed without realizing it. when i try to tell people that i literally dont give a fuck about anything because i’m already carrying the greatest injustice of my life, i really mean that shit. im not exaggerating for literary purposes. these are things that break my heart in retrospect. 

it took me up until the first anniversary of your death to actually piece together the fact that literally the whole fucking world went to shit after you passed. i swear to God thats not a coincidence. shit i never thought i would never see in my entire life was happening right after you were gone to the point where i was so distracted with that atrocity, i wasnt even tending tending to the atrocity in my heart. 

im trying to want to believe that makes sense 

the first anniversary of your death came on the day the election was officially called a victory by Joe Biden. Literally what the whole world was waiting for, including myself. i watched people celebrating and parading in the streets and finally being relieved. i woke up with you on my mind way before i heard the good news and was quickly reminded that my heartbreak goes on. couldnt even distract myself with social media. i feel like i’m always the one sad on the days of celebration. and its not even about me just seeing some shit on social media one day in 2020. in 10 years this day will be in the history books my kids will read and i will hear about it in my classes in the future and i’ll be 83 years old in November 2073 and you will still be on my mind

[tamsclapper-blog]

The Artificial Clam that Ruined Christmas

Dave and Broth knew it wasn’t real. How could it be? Real clams weren’t limp and dry to the touch. A real clam had gumption. Yet there they were, packing it into a box with brightly colored tissue paper.

            They told their grandmother, 10 years past, that they joined the Navy. They even sent pictures of themselves dressed in real Navy suits they found in the dumpster behind the Taco Bell. She believed every photo, and now believed her grandsons lived in an ocean view condo in North Carolina. If she knew they really lived in Arkansas, a simple state known only for harboring the man who invented ziploc bags, she woulda busted a nut.

            Truth was, Broth was more frightened of the ocean than a baby is of fingernail clippers. And Dave, well Dave was ashamed of his brother and feared that he too might be afraid of the ocean. It was this ‘what if’ mentality that kept him several coat throws away from ever visiting the shore to find out what was or what wasn’t.

So when Broth got a call from their grandmother requesting they come for Christmas, he was feeling mighty pleased with himself for keeping a bushel of oceanfront pictures under his bed all ziploced and ready to go, but then she said something that made him wish he was holding a ziploc bag to breathe deeply into: “Bring something from the ocean.”

*

Broth sat in the passenger seat with the small box between his legs. He gazed out the window, avoiding eye contact with his brother. Dave held the wheel firmly and gritted his teeth. “I can’t believe there isn’t a single crustacean in this god-fucking bag-loving state.”

            Broth said nothing.

            “Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without you. I imagine it could be pleasant and simple. After all, I’m not the one who’s afraid of the ocean.”

            “You sure about that?” Broth shot.

            Dave’s eyes flickered but he was quick to regain composure. They rode in silence until they crossed the state line and said in unison, “Panty horse”. It was a state line crossing tradition in their family.

             That night they stopped at a motel that was as famous for reuniting folk as it was for people untucking the covers, plunging in, and sleeping the whole night through. When they arrived the woman at the front desk could tell they were brothers and had been fighting. Dave arranged for two separate rooms with an adjoining door but the woman, pointing to a poster with their ‘Never Go To Bed Angry’ slogan, said she only felt comfortable giving them a single room with one, rather puny, bed.

            So there they were. Two faithful brothers kneeled down on opposite sides of the bed, hands folded hamburger style as they prayed. Broth prayed for a safe trip, a steadfast grandma, and for the ziploc enterprise to come out with a bag that could dry a bathing suit. Dave prayed for salt in the complimentary breakfast and that he wouldn’t have to sleep with his ass cheeks all pressed up against his brothers; a prayer not well received.

             In the morning they ate breakfast on the patio among the lilies and wire chairs. Dave was delicately brushing butter on his muffin when a man, who looked like he wouldn’t know the difference between John Kennedy and Clark Gable if you paid him, blocked out the sunlight with his lingering torso.

            “You boys on the road?” for a rough and tougher he had a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

            “We’re men,” Dave said, not looking up from his food.

            Broth said, “Headed west to see our grandma!”

            “West, alright. Okay. You can take my sister along with you, at least as far as Santa Fe,” the man supposed.

            Dave said, “Now why in the hell would we do that?”

            Broth’s hand shook like a thespian’s broomstick, “Dave, Don’t loose your temper,” he was in a deep seated eye lock with the standing man, “We better take her, Dave. We better do what he says.”

            “That’s right, there, Davey. Better do what I say. Ha.”

            Furiously, Dave launched from his seat, but when his eyes met the mans he handed over his watch quicker than a half-baked choir boy can say ‘no loose change.’

            Broth’s shaking was so anti-miniscule that a muffin shot out of his hand and landed in the shirt pocket of a young girl, about 12, who came to stand by the mysterious man. Patting her brim filled pocket, she flashed her metal braced teeth.

            “This here’s my sister, Olbright, take her with you wherever you want,” he turned to Dave who was gripping the table for support, “Just don’t let me catch any you three in this town again. You hear?”

            Broth tipped his hat and stood to bow, “We hear everything. I can hear better than a cocker spaniel.”

            “Uh, huh,” the man said skepticly.

            Olbright pulled up a chair and the sun returned as the man disappeared, unless you had been paying attention and saw him walk away in a normal fashion. Dave tried to shake his heavy daze. He had that sick feeling you get in your gut when you trade one good gemstone for one mediocre at best gemstone at a convention – and nobody could hear his cry.

            “You guys got any bees?” Olbright asked impatiently.

            “No,” Broth replied. “The bees have been disappearing. No one really knows what’s happened to them.”

            Olbright crossed her arms and kicked the leg of the table.

            “I’ll go pay the bill,” Dave said.

*

The only two things the car ride after the hotel had in common with the car ride before the hotel were that Dave and Broth weren’t doing much talking and the road was long and arduous. The difference was that now they had Olbright and she simply wouldn’t shut up. She talked for hours about catholic school and how she had never gone there. Then she talked about catalog models and how their faces change over time. What ticked the two brothers off the most was how oblivious she was that they had both gotten haircuts during the last pit stop. She just kept chipping away at their souls with talk of crowded city corners and pinto beans. Broth was just about ready to settle his head between his knees for a nap when the chatterbox from hell yelled, “What is this thing?!” with disgust from the backseat.

            “Jesus! That’s a clam for our grandma. Wrap that back up!”

            “A Whaaat?”

            “A clam from the ocean.”             “Um. Is your grandnanny blind?”

            “Um, No!”

            “This is not from the ocean. Even I know that and I’ve never even been there.”

            “Oh yeah,” Dave chimed in, “Well how come you never been to the ocean. You scared or something.”

            “Noooo, I don’t think so.”

            Broth reached back and grabbed the artificial clam and its box wrappings. “Why don’t you take it easy back there. Just go to sleep or something.”

            “I can’t. It’s day.”

            “Then let’s play the silent game. For the next hour I want it so quiet I can hear my teeth chatter.”

            “But what about the engine. Are you going to turn off the engine just to play a game? That’s really irresponsible.”

            “Enough!” Dave shouted and slammed on the brakes.

            Then, and only then, that artificial clam ever so gingerly flew from Broth’s flimsy grasp, broke through the front windshield and bounced off the hood.

            “Holy. Mother. Of. CHRIST!”

            “The Virgin Mary?” Olbright asked.

            “Yes,” Broth whispered, bowing his head in defeat, “Or so I’ve been told.”

            Slamming the car door behind him, Dave started down the gravel road. Broth scurried to his beloved clam. The shell wasn’t chipped, but the half- chalk like half-caulk like ‘clam’ broke off. Stuffing the pieces in his pocket with an iron fist, he ran after Dave, screaming his name on high. Catching up with his brother, who was paused in the road, and an eerie feeling came over Broth. He felt afraid to speak.

            “I can’t stop thinking about what happened at that hotel.” Dave said gravely.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Come off it.” The wind picked up and a wave of dust washed over their blue suede shoes.

            “I – I dunno.” Broth muttered, “That man made me feel like I was hiding in a kitchen with all pots and no pans. I hate feeling that way.”

            “So do I. I felt weak. And now look what were dealing with,” They looked over at Olbright who was kicking at a car tire. “We can’t keep living this way. Fear is ruining us. Maybe we should just go to the ocean and –“

            “NO! No, Dave anybody would have given a man like that their watch and looked all dumb faced and eagle eyed. That wasn’t fear, just common sense.”

            “Hey!” Olbright called out, “You guys wanna see your dumb old granny or ya’ wanna squat in the dusty road all day?”

            “Granny.”

*

When they arrived at grandma’s, everyone was feeling pharmaceutical. Broth had super glued a piece of ziploc to the shell and another to the artificial clam so that it locked neatly into place.            Dave lifted Olbright into an open window and she went around and unlocked the door. The weary eyed travelers sat by grandma’s feet as she napped in her ottoman. There was nothing to do but wait.

            When she woke, she opened one eye at a time and then her mouth. This is what came out of it, “When I was a little girl my father’s father took me to the sea. I loved the sea and the way the sand was like tiny pebbles, only different. I had waited with cold breath all winter for grandfather to see me in my swimsuit, and now there we were. He whipped off his shirt and ran for the water. “Come on, Virginia! Take off your top, the waters fine!” But to my surprise, I couldn’t do it. The sea had made me shy. I never went back after that day. And that’s why I’m so proud that you boys, my grandsons, live in peace along the seaside.”

            Broth presented the gift, feeling he might faint. Dave gulped. ‘She’ll know, she’ll know,’ he thought.

            Just then the telephone rang. Broth rolled over and rubbed his eyes. A dream, it had all been a dream! “Thank. God,” he expressed, grabbing the receiver.

            “Talk to me.”

            “Broth?”

            “Grandma? What a coincidence, I was just having the strangest dream about you.”

            “Really? What was the dream?”

            “Uh…you were drinking cherry cola in an igloo,” he lied.

            “Oh, dear! That’s wonderful. You know, I haven’t had cherry cola in years. That is a coincidence! Listen dear, I know it’s short notice, Christmas being only eight and a half days away and you boys living way out by out ocean, but I really would love a visit.”

            “We’d love to come see you, grandma.”

            “Good! Good it’s settled. Can’t wait to see you! Oh, and bring some cherry cola.”

            “Okay, Gram.”

            “Oh, and Broth? Bring something from the ocean too. Ta ta.”

 *

 Broth spent the afternoon preparing a rather suggestive meal for his brother.

            “Baby back ribs, baby carrots, and baby snap peas. Notice any theme here?”

            “No,” Dave spat as he tucked his napkin into his turtle necked sweater.

            “Well, you should, cause were going to grandma’s, baby!”

            Broth had the whole dream carefully written out, just as you’ve read above. I, Broth wrote that, just as I’m writing this, and I read it to Dave, stuttering and shaking like a bitch on pay roll. When I finished he fled the room and came back with a sketching of the mysterious standing man and a map pointing to where grandma probably lived in the dream. This is how I knew he understood what we had to do.

            We filed into the car, closing the smooth metal doors like true gentleman. We sailed past grandma’s house, who in real life lived right down the street, a secret us brothers guarded in the evening, morning, and early noon.

            This journey called for far more courage than a simple romp to grandma’s, and I figure you’re not too dim witted to know we were headed to the very thing we disowned decades ago; the mad sea. What you probably are too stupid to know is that the strange man in the dream represented our grandmother’s neighbor, Armen Kelley, who was always looming about, especially around the holidays, bragging about his best selling novel; ‘The Ocean and All the Things that are Really from it and All the Things that Aren’t.’ If we brought something artificial to Christmas this man would be our downfall, believe you me.

             Dave and I rode together in perfect unison down a road that was so malleable, you could slip a penny in it if it were a pair of loafers, and said, “Panty horse” when crossing our first state line.

After two days of travel we finally found a motel we could agree on called Absolute Fascination, and it was there that I caught my first glimpse of hell. Toes huddled together, I hid behind my knees on the cold bathroom tile.

            Dave knocked on the door, “Are you thinking about Jed Maco in there?”

            “No,” I lied. Jed Maco was a lad I went to school with who’s parents wrapped his lunch in tin foil instead of ziploc bags. My hatred for the Maco’s helped steer my mind off something of a vastly blue persuasion.

            Dave flattened himself, slid under the crack of the door and reformulated. I didn’t even know he was behind me until he tugged on my ponytail. I wheeled around and we were nose to nose – two brothers – just as it should be, would be, and was.

            “Have you ever heard the expression ‘the world is your oyster’?”

            I nodded.

            “Well, what if it really could be.”

            “Don’t like oysters,” I said after thinking it over.

            “But what if you did like them, Broth. What if we could lay out sunbathing, go parasailing!”

            “Take it easy.”

            “If nothing was holding us back, we could-“

            “I don’t want to hear your ‘we coulds’! I do just fine without those things. Maybe I don’t want to be here at all, did you think of that? Maybe I was fine as doing before that female doctor before her time reached into the utero and pulled me out by the hind legs!”

            Needless to say we both got like 50 emails that night. They were prank emails.

*

“David B. Cylinderthrob, clearly you are under much stress. Your hair follicles have been startled by something. What did you do to them? Well, anyway, that’s why you’re bald now,” the doctor spouted, tactlessly.

            We had arrived at the seaside earlier that day, where the mystery of whether Dave was or wasn’t scared of the ocean receded as quickly as the strands of dead skin cells that used to round his face, drawing attention from his ‘maybe its maybelline’ cheekbones. And we hadn’t even left the car.

            “But doctor,” Dave pleaded, “Without my hair, how will anyone be able to tell I’m albino?”

            “Oh, its still very obvious, Mr. Cylinderthrob.” The doctor bent down on one knee and held Dave’s chin affectionately,             “You’ll always have those beady little eyes.”

            Dave blushed.

            “Say, doc,” I interrupted, “Who’s thong strap do I have to snap to get some cheese curls or chili around here.”

            “Just go to the end of the hall and take a right. There will be four elevators, use the middle-left one and wait until the doors close before you press the round ‘four’. The button will light up when you do this, but don’t be frightened. When you step out, take a smart right and pass the first set of stairs. When you reach the second, descend. If we have cheese curls or chili that’s where they’d be, in the cafeteria.”

There were rows of them, nestled sweetly in a shallow tin platter, each shell raised at half mast exposing the steamed bodies of a certain sea urchin my brother and I had been clamoring for. They were the size of a wax turtle figurine if the turtle were the size of a rock that’s the circumference of a zookeepers fist, and I had a feeling Grandma was going to ‘go ape shit’ when she saw. I ordered one in a to-go box and a double helping of noodle casserole; I was eating for two since Dave’s appetite went out the window, barreling towards the tides with his luscious locks.

            I went up to find Dave seated in a wheel chair with one sad balloon tied to the handle, pathetically grazing the cruel tile floor. This was a man voted ‘Best Hair for an Albino’ in his senior year booklet, and now he looked like a tried and true grape, ready to combust.

            “Well, at least one good thing came out of this.” I announced.

            Dave grunted.

            I opened the to-go box, waving the morsel under his nose. His eyes glimmered for a moment, then he pushed it away. “Let’s get this honkey tonk Christmas road show on the road where it belongs.”

            I could tell he was going to be a real prick the whole way home.

 *

 I loved Christmas as a kid. It was the only day of the year my parents would let me use the bathroom before Dave at times when we had to go at the same time. It was also when my father and I would enter in an annual competition, just me and him, testing our fate in The Father and Second Favorite Son Snowmobile Race for Non -New Yorkers and Ex- Policemen. We even almost won one year. I remember that day like it was corn water in a vase. But it wasn’t, it was Christmas.

            Papa-runie had resurrected an old snowmobile from the dead, and this thing was mad. It was a three speeder but I swear it rocked like twenty-seven speeds. Mama usually didn’t let us wear helmets cause she said it made our heads look too big for our bodies, but when she got a load of what we’d be riding that year she said, “God has no head mercy for the foolish.”

            She wrapped our baby sister, Juniper, up in some old cloth, stuffed her in a French horn, and slung it over her shoulder. I remember at the starting line how mom’s brass horn reflected off my fathers wrist watch forming a powerful beam that flashed square in my eye, nearly cataracting me. They were so in love.

            “On your marks?” The mayor inquired.

            I looked to the father and son team to our right; a baseball card collector named Ted Bundy and his father, an ex-cop turned con. We were going to pulverize them, I thought mischievously.

            “Go!”

            Everything went silent. We were traveling so fast, sound couldn’t catch up. A voice verbatimed in my head, “Unbuckle your helmet.” It seemed a familiar voice, though too angelic to be my mothers. “Unbuckle and remove your helmet, Broth. It’s time to let go.” My hands reached up as if it weren’t even me moving them and unleashed my neck from its itchy strapped hell, throwing the blasted thing behind us. And then, it felt like a million knives stabbed into me. It was a pain like nothing I’d ever experienced. We had ridden over ice and it broke. I swam as fast as any boy wearing thirteen pairs of long johns could, and my mother was waiting at the ponds edge to lift me out. My father sunk immediately. It was the helmet, it was just too heavy. Devastated, I watched as the victors crossed the finish line. The boy pulled down his pants to taunt me with the fleshy keister and his old man flipped me a bird or two.

            The next day my mother and sister perished in a fire. Since then its been just me and Dave; Dave taking care of me, me taking care of Dave, and our Grandma making peroshkis and buying us the latest trouser trend. Now, with clam in hand, I finally felt man enough to repay that woman.

 *

 Armen Kelly. Was he beast or was he man? All I knew for sure was he was on our Grandma’s porch patting us down, “Saw it in an old cops and robbers film,” he offered aimlessly as Dave pushed his way through the hinged openers that could only properly be described as doors.

            When I saw her my heart stopped for half a second, beat, and then repeat itself just as it always does. At first she didn’t notice us because she was ravenously licking envelopes but then, in one maddening arm swoop, all the letters flittered to the ground and she motioned us to sit on her coffee table. I tried my weight and it teetered but with a bit of fidgeting Dave and I sat simultaneously on opposite ends to even things out, and Armen handed over a piggy bank to make up for the five pounds Dave had on me. Grandma didn’t make a peep except to give some balongie excuse for her favorite team, The Nicks, and to coin a new term. I took out my ziploc bag full of beach photos and passed them around.

            “You bring these same photos every year,” Armen spouted, “Why don’t you take a new shot or two?”

            Dave came to my rescue, “Actually, Mr. Kelly, Broth takes a picture of our beloved ocean front every morning, but he likes those few shots so much that he keeps taking them again and again. It takes a true artist to copy an image so exact.”

            Armen muttered under his breath.

            “Yes, and the morning before we left, I scooped from the shore a morsel so succulent that I couldn’t help but wrap it in Garfield franchise paper, dab a bow on top, and bring it to the only women I know who enjoys playing Scattagories with a spinner instead of a dice,” I said smoothly, taking the gift out my pocket like a boss. Grandma unwrapped the clam and bounced it on her knee, giggling like a school girl, when old ‘Shoulda Beena Stillborn’ put on his reading glasses and got his nose all up in the shell, sniffing.

            “My dear Virginia. I hate to say it, but I’m afraid this here clam is an artificial.”

            “A WHAT?” I shouted.

            “That’s from the Atlantic, you man fetus,” Dave chirped.

            “As is noted in my book, ‘The Ocean and All the Things that are Really from it and All the Things that Aren’t’, or TOAATTTARFIAATTTA, as we call is down at the publishers station, a real bivalve molluscs, which one would have to go to the ocean to find, has two valves which are connected by both a hinge joint and a ligament. This clam here? No ligament.”

            “Armen,” Grandma sighed, “Everyone knows how much help you had writing that gruesome sea urchin book. Really, I don’t think you’d know a real clam if it crawled into bed with you and took off your socks.”

            “It’s a fake!” he shouted and stomped.

            “Sit down, Armen, you’re getting red in the face. It’s unbecoming.”

            “Your boys don’t live by the ocean!” He turned to face us, “I see you phonies at the grocery store every Sunday!”

            The room went silent except for Dave crunching on cheetos, then he looked up and lamely said, “No.”

            Armen paced like a hobby horse ready to leave the station.

            “Okay,” Grandma finally spoke, “Yes, I know the boys don’t live by the ocean.”

            My eyes widened.

            “You use so many ziploc bags. Only an Arkansinian zips and locks with such pride.”

            Dave bursted from his corner of the coffee table, toppling me to the ground, shouting,  “I told you so, I told you so, I toooold you to lay off the ziplocs!”

            “What the fuck, Dave! You never said that! Besides, you use ziploc bags all. the. time.”

            “Boy’s, stop! It’s my turn to talk and I’m going to talk for a long time, so curl up like cats on the floor!”

             I laid my head on a broken table leg and drifted in and out of consciousness as grandma spoke for many hours. At times it seemed like everything was in slow motion, like when Armen Kelly walked backwards to the front door and closed it oh so slowly behind him. I couldn’t possibly reiterate all that was said, but here’s what I did pick up on: grandma, as it turns out, doesn’t give two shakes of a lambs tail about the ocean, and never understood why we thought she did. She spoke in high regards of the inventor of ziploc bags, calling him the prince of plastic. She also rambled about D-Day in such a contradictory way that I was unable to assess whether she was for or against the tragic day. I woke to Grandma breaking smelling salts under my nose.

            She led us single file into the dining room where Dave and I’s gifts sat on the table. We opened them feverishly, revealing two thirty caliber machine guns. We pointed them to the ceiling, and with each bang specks of ceiling fell like little snowflakes, raining down on us, covering my face just as the snowfall did on the night my father died and I laid in the backyard feeling still an untouched pill. Through the silent cracks between bangs, I could faintly hear my Grandmother’s cries; “Stop! My house!” But that didn’t matter now.